I gasped and stood back from the counter. Harry held up a hand. “The Mendotas, ma’am. We don’t do business withthem.”
I turned and glared at Flint again. How in theH-E-Double-Hockey-Sticksdid he tick off a senior citizen in Dorsey, Mississippi?
I was about to ask the question when Harry’s phone dinged. He looked at the screen, frowned, then nodded his head toward a camera in the corner.
Great. Someone had a front-row seat to thePoop Parade.
“What’s your name?” Harry asked.
“Celia Saber,” I narrowed my eyes. “Do you do business withmy kind?”
Harry’s eyes widened. “That was meant as no offense, ma’am. But I’m going to need Mr. Mendota to leave the lobby.”
I gathered up my suitcase and turned toward the door. “Then, we’ll all be going.”
Harry ran out from behind the counter. He was only an inch or two taller. “Please, don’t leave. The missus will have my hide if I turn down paying customers.”
I smiled sweetly. “Then, you’ll rent us two rooms.”
Harry dropped his voice to a whisper. “I don’t have two rooms to rent. But I do have a room with a king-sized bed.”
What is this? Some sort of cheesy romantic comedy where there’s only one room at the inn?
“Where’s the nearest hotel to this one?” I looked toward Flint.
“Oh, that would be in Oxford. About 20 miles away,” Harry smiled.
Twenty miles that we couldn’t drive because we were out of gas, and I didn’t see a gas station anywhere nearby.
I rolled my eyes and reached into my purse for a credit card. “Do you take American Express?”
Harry frowned.
Oh, for the love of Pete.
I handed over the Visa card instead. Harry ran it, had mehandwritethe rental information, then handed me one key.
An actual key. Attached to a keychain with our room number on it.
We did go back in time to 1985.
“What time is breakfast?” I started to snicker, thinking of theGravy Hot Tub, but dialed it back, just in time. “Eggs, waffles, biscuits?”
Harry grimaced. “Uh, yeah. That’s available at The Gracie Spoon next door.”
I shook my head. “So, you advertise breakfast on your sign but don’t serve it?”
Harry shrugged.
“I’m guessing theGravy Hot Tubisn’t true either,” I sighed.
“What?” Harry looked puzzled.
I opened my mouth to say something else, but Flint cut me off, grabbing the suitcase, snack bag, and key from my hand.
“Thanks, Mr. Tracy,” Flint grumbled, then walked out of the lobby.
Pretty sure in all of those “only one room in the inn” stories, the heroine was looking forward to sharing a bed with her broody hero.
MyMr. Cranky Pants would be lucky if I didn’t kill him in his sleep.
